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It’s not ‘Who’s going to fill the ice trays?’, nor is it ‘Who gets to be on top this time?’ Although we play those games, too.

(And, just for the record:

The person who takes the last ice cube fills the tray; and

We decide who’s on top by… heeeey, wait a minute. You think I’m stupid over here? I’m not discussing this kind of personal crap on the website. That’s how you get into damned trouble, people — no, thanks. I start dishing with the bedroom talk, and there’ll be no ‘top’ to begin with. Forget it.

Besides, it’s really complicated how we decide, anyway. I can’t go into details, but it usually involves a voodoo shaman, a Magic 8-Ball, and a twelve-sided die. Or pinky-toe wrestling. Preferably in a kiddie pool filled with marshmallow Peeps.

That’s right, folks — presumably-naked, Peep-pooled pinky-toe wrestling. Picture that in your head, if you dare. That’s the kind of stunning mental image we provide here at Where the Hell Was I?, every day of the weird-assed week. Is it any wonder we’ve had one hundred thousand visitors? The drivel speaks for itself.)

All right. Just what the hell was I talking about? I have no idea where that came from, people — pay no attention to the man behind the parentheses.

Ah, right — our little game. Of course.

So, circling slowly back to the point, the wife and I have this game that we play. I call it: ‘Are you keeping secrets, or am I a fricking moron?‘

It’s a very simple game, really — here’s how it’s played:

My wife decides on a topic. It can be anything, really — an appointment I should make, details about weekend plans, important account passwords that I’m supposed to remember… anything.

Then, she has a choice: she can either tell me about the thing far in advance, so I have time to prepare, and plan, and generally wrap my feeble, spongy mind around the idea.

(Or, in some cases, so I have time to get riptastically hammered for the occasion, the better to suffer through it. But we haven’t had one of those in a while, now.)

Or, she can choose not to mention the thing to me, because she’s forgotten to tell me, or has made a conscious decision that it’s better to leave me in the dark. Usually because I’ll bitch and grouse and moan for weeks in advance, if it’s something unpleasant, or is going to preempt something I’d rather be doing. I usually think I’d like to know about these things beforehand, as painful as it may be for everyone involved — but whether she tells me is totally her call. At this point in the game, I don’t even know that there is a thing, so I have no say in the matter.

Now, here comes the fun part. No matter what her choice up front, the game really begins just before whatever thing-or-other is scheduled to occur. That’s when she’ll say something like:

‘Honey, don’t forget that thing we’re doing tomorrow night.‘

To which, I volley back:

‘Thing? Tomorrow? Wha?‘

And the game is on. Now it’s up to me to remember whether she ever told me about such a ‘thing’, or if she’s just bluffing with her ‘reminder’. Meanwhile, she does her best to convince me that I knew about this thing all along, and that she told me about it so long ago, now she can’t even remember exactly when it was. And we go round and round, until… well, until I give up, and concede that she may have told me, at some point when I wasn’t paying attention, and that it’s probably my fault for being unprepared. Or surprised. Or not hammered.

So, really, I guess it’s not much of a ‘game’ at all. A proper game would have a ‘winner’ and a ‘loser’, and occasionally, we’d trade off and each get to feel the thrill of victory tingle through our hearty cockles. And I know — I know, dammit — that sometimes she waits until the last minute to inform me of some heinous responsibility or social obligation. Sure, it’s because she knows that we’re both better off that way, and that I’d just make us miserable for weeks leading up to it, and that she’s quite possibly teetering the scales back, away from both my own insanity and possible divorce proceedings.

But damn, is it confusing when I can’t remember something — and then can’t even remember whether I forgot about it, or I’m simply a pawn in this little game-that’s-not-really-a-game. I’ve got to start taking notes, or taping all of our conversations, or maybe hire a stenographer, so I can determine once and for all whether she’s holding back information or I’m really a sieve-brained shitball.

Mothers play the same game with their children. Actually, I think it must be a woman thing in general. Then again, it might be due to the fact that men and children just don’t listen. Selective hearing and all that. You know the drill.